


no ballad will be written

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24430474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: He growled, pushing the sword deeper. “This is for Jaskier, you - ”“Geralt,” she repeated, but - but suddenly it wasn’t her voice. It was too deep, toofamiliar.He blinked, once, twice, shaking his head. With each blink, each second, the fog started to clear and all he could see was Jaskier’s face.Jaskier, impaled on his sword. Jaskier, blood splattered across his face,blood dripping from his mouth.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 642





	no ballad will be written

**Author's Note:**

> i half-assed most of the plot to this just for some good old fashioned angst  
> (no worries - there's a happy ending bc im too soft for sad endings <3)
> 
> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Geralt should’ve realized it was a trap. No monster was _that_ organized; even the most intelligent of them wouldn’t have been able to plan such an elaborate trick. But he hadn’t, not soon enough. Now he stood just feet away from the _real_ culprit, a mage. He had found her, hiding away in an abandoned building deep in the woods. The entire building had been encircled in a powerful spell that had been activated the moment he stepped inside the building, leaving him nowhere to run.

“You weren’t wrecking havoc just for the fun of it,” he said, slowly connecting the dots. “Were you?”

The mage was pretty - weren’t they all? - with shining dark hair and perfectly straight teeth. She smiled at him, eyes sparkling. “I wasn’t,” she confirmed brightly, stepping toward him. He took a step back. “I was trying to get _you_ to come to _me_.” Her smile turned nastier by the second. “Worked like a charm, wouldn’t you say?”

Geralt avoided angering mages if he could help it. He was strong, but they were almost always stronger with magic on their side. He could feel the magic pouring off her, sour and potent. The little magic he could do was _nothing_ compared to it, he knew.

If only Yennefer was there, but she wasn’t. At least he had convinced Jaskier to stay back at the inn. The bard would surely come looking for him if he didn’t return by morning, but hopefully she’d be long gone by then. Geralt just had to wonder what state Jaskier would find his _own_ body in.

He had hoped Jaskier would never have to find him like that. He was _painfully_ familiar with the kind of lasting guilt seeing someone like that could have, especially if you cared for the person.

“Are you daft?” she asked sharply, snapping him out of his thoughts. She was closer, now, too close. Her eyes were glittering with amusement. “You dare ignore me when I’m right in front of you? Do you _wish_ to die?”

Geralt ignored her many questions. “Why do you have it out for me, witch? What did I do?”

He had crossed many people in the past, that much was certain, but he remembered most of them. This mage - pretty and dark-haired - was not in any of his memories. Her mouth twisted in a frown, eyes darkening. “You saved him,” she said, perfectly even. When he didn’t respond, she stepped closer; the tips of her hair sparked with magic. “I cursed him, and you _broke it._ ”

Geralt hadn’t been expecting that, but he wasn’t surprised - he had helped to break a lot of curses over the decades. He stood, unwavering, as she stepped closer and closer, no longer retreating. He knew there was no point.

“How was I supposed to know?” he asked. Even in the face of death, he wouldn’t cower. “You could’ve shown up and told me - ”

She growled, almost animalistic, cutting him off as she turned abruptly and walked away. Geralt blinked, also not expecting that. She slowed, a few feet away. “You think you’re some hero, don’t you?” she asked, barely a whisper. With his hearing, it was crystal clear. She turned on her heels, eyes burning. “But you’re _not_ , witcher. You are no better than the monsters you slay.”

Geralt tilted his head up. “I have never viewed myself as a hero,” he said evenly. He might have, when he was younger and had just taken to his role. He had _wanted_ to be a hero, at least, but reality had quickly smacked him off his feet.

“I don’t believe that,” she said then she smiled nastily. “And tonight you will see what you _really_ are.”

The words fell empty. Geralt reached for his sword, but he stopped when he heard it: quiet scratching from down one of the dark hallways. He peered down the hall, but he couldn’t see far enough, not even with his catlike vision. “What is that?” he asked slowly. She simply smiled wider and flickered her wrist.

He hadn’t expect an answer so quickly. Following the flick of her wrist, fingertips sparking with magic, something - someone, he quickly realized - was dragged out from the depths of the shadows. They were tied up, struggling violently.

He didn’t even need to see their face. He could _smell_ them, a familiar scent that made his stomach lurch.

But then they were close, close enough that Geralt could meet their eyes. Jaskier stared back at him with wide, wide eyes. He stilled, suddenly giving up all fight.

He tore his eyes away from the bard, glaring at the mage. “Let him go,” he said, somehow keeping his voice perfectly even despite the goosebumps on his arms. “He has nothing to do with this.”

Geralt didn’t even know how she had gotten to him, or when. It had to have been right after he left. With her magic, she could’ve grabbed him and still gotten here before he showed up. Fuck, he should’ve thought of that. He had left him there like an idiot, the perfect prey.

“You know I won’t do that,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re not an idiot, as much as you tend to act like one.” Curling a finger, she dragged Jaskier closer to her. Geralt instinctively stepped forward. “Ah, ah,” she said with a smile. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. One wrong move and I could slice his head off by barely lifting a finger.”

Geralt didn’t dare to move again. He didn’t doubt that he was faster than her, powers be damned, but he couldn’t risk it. Not when Jaskier was staring at him with wet eyes, rope wedged between his lips. But that wouldn’t be a problem for very long as the mage ducked down and swiftly pulled the rope down to hang loosely around his neck.

“Well?” she prompted, sounding almost bored. “Say something.”

Geralt’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. His swords were heavy on his back, calling to him.

Jaskier pointedly kept his mouth shut, lips pressed together. He stared at Geralt, silent and unyielding. Her mouth twisted in an ugly frown.

“Say something,” she repeated, louder.

Jaskier firmly shook his head. Geralt normally respected his stubbornness, truly, even if he had never said it in so many words but in that moment he just wanted him to listen to her. To stop what he knew was coming. She didn’t use magic - didn’t seem to even consider it; she slammed her foot down between his shoulder blades, causing him to bend over with a pained gasp.

“Now _that’s_ a sound,” she mused, pulling her foot off him with a pleased smile. Her eyes flickered up, dark with amusement. “Wouldn’t you agree, witcher?”

He swallowed. “He’s just a bard,” he said. “You can do what you want with me. I won’t even fight you.” Geralt stepped forward slowly, lifting his hands. She stared at him, unblinking. “You can kill me, torture me, anything you want.”

Jaskier straightened, just enough to peer up at him with wide eyes, silently pleading. Geralt’s stomach lurched painfully. He forced himself to look away.

“Just let him go,” he finished as gently as he could. No point in riling her up.

For a moment - one blissful second - her smile fell and he was hopeful. Stupidly hopeful. Suddenly she jumped back. She didn’t take Jaskier with her, at least. Small blessings. Geralt didn’t rush to his side, not trusting it, but he wanted to.

Gods, how he wanted to.

“I was right,” she said, eyes sparkling. “You _care_ about him. More than I thought, even.”

Geralt just kept his eyes on her, forced his expression to stay neutral. If he could still trick her into thinking she was _wrong_ \- that Jaskier meant nothing to him - maybe she would release him. He knew it was for naught, even long before she smiled cruelly and pulled something out of her pocket. A jewel from the looks of it.

He didn’t recognize it. He didn’t need to.

“Look down,” she said, and he did. He was standing in the middle of a sigil, drawn hastily. “Do you know what that is, witcher?”

Geralt didn’t, not really, but he knew enough. He looked up as she clutched the jewel in her hand, grinning wickedly.

“You will remember this day for the rest of your life,” she said. Before he could reply, she was chanting something, loud and clear, bouncing off the walls of the crumbling building. Geralt tried to grab his sword, out of options, but he found that he was frozen in the middle of the sigil. His eyes flickered to Jaskier, struggling against his bindings as she continued her chant.

Then suddenly there was a flash. He squeezed his eyes shut. The chanting was over. He tested the sigil, trying to curl his fingers.

They curled, albeit stiffly, and his eyes snapped open. Jaskier was gone, but that didn’t matter: the mage was still there, right in front of him. She blinked owlishly. He would have time to find Jaskier after he killed her. _After_ his sword was soaked in her blood.

After she paid for what she did. For even _daring_ to threaten Jaskier’s life.

He unsheathed his sword in just seconds, rushing toward her. She took a step back, staggering. “No,” she said, and there was a new quality to her voice, an almost fearful waver. _Good_ , he thought with an all-consuming rage, almost blinding. “Wait, wait,” she continued as he grew closer, scrambling back. “Geralt, no, _wait_ \- ”

But he didn’t. He had no reason to. She was _right_ there.

It was almost euphoric, the sound of his sword piercing her body, blood splattering across his chest and face. He thought briefly of how Jaskier would rewrite this moment for his next song.

But then - “ _Geralt,”_ she spoke again, blood pooling at the corners of her mouth as she reached up, trembling hands hovering over the blade of the sword that disappeared into her stomach.

He growled, pushing the sword deeper. “This is for Jaskier, you - ”

“Geralt,” she repeated, but - but suddenly it wasn’t her voice. It was too deep, too _familiar_. He blinked, once, twice, shaking his head. With each blink, each second, the fog started to clear and all he could see was Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier, impaled on his sword. Jaskier, blood splattered across his face, _blood dripping from his mouth._

He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. She cursed him, some kind of eternal slumber that repeated his worst nightmare or something like that. Because he _couldn’t_ have - right? He looked down at his hands, still wrapped around the hilt of the sword. His stomach lurched; he tasted bile at the back of his throat.

“No,” he breathed, releasing the hilt. His hands shook. “No, no, _no_ \- ”

This wasn’t right. He would never hurt Jaskier. He had promised himself that - many, many years ago after their fight on the mountain. He would never hurt him again.

“Geralt.”

He could barely hear through the rushing in his ears. He looked up and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Jaskier, _smiling_ at him. He had just stabbed him, and he was _smiling_ at him, like he had so many times before. There was a sob; he couldn’t tell if he was from him or Jaskier.

“Geralt,” he repeated; his teeth were covered in blood. Geralt was going to be sick. His hands still shook. He looked down at the sword. It was deep, too deep. He couldn’t remove it. He couldn’t _fix_ this. He couldn’t _save_ him. “ _Geralt_ \- ” A groan of pain and suddenly Jaskier was falling. Geralt moved without thinking, catching him in his arms and gently slumping to the floor with him sprawled across his lap.

There was so much blood. It was all he could _see_ and _smell_ and _taste_.

“Jaskier,” he said, pressing his hands to his stomach. There was so much of it. It was ridiculous; he had never been queasy at the sight of blood before but _now_ \- now all he wanted to do was puke. “Jaskier, I - I can’t stop the bleeding.”

Jaskier stared up at him. Geralt barely realized the bard was lifting a hand until it was cupping the side of his face. His hand trembled. “I - ” He stopped, coughing violently. Blood splattered across Geralt’s face; he didn’t even blink. He couldn’t blink. He couldn’t miss a second. He couldn’t risk blinking and suddenly Jaskier being gone. “It’s - it’s okay,” he continued once he was finished coughing, forcing a smile back on his face.

His hand fell, too weak to be held up any longer. Geralt scrambled for it, squeezing lightly.

“It’s not,” he said. There was another sob. This time he knew it was from him. “You’re - you’re _dying_ , Jaskier.” He squeezed his hand tighter. “And - and there’s nothing - there’s nothing I can - ”

Jaskier smiled at him. He wouldn’t _stop_ smiling, even as his eyes darkened, losing their usual bright glow. Geralt wanted him to stop. He didn’t deserve it. He had never deserved his companionship. “Is - is not your fault,” he said, slurred. More and more blood poured from his lips.

“Stop talking,” he said gruffly. “Stop talking. I’ll - I’ll find help. Just hang on, okay?”

Jaskier hummed, eyelashes fluttering. “Not your fault,” he muttered before his eyes finally fell shut.

*

Geralt stood up, cradling Jaskier in his arms. He could still hear his heartbeat but it was faint, fading. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he couldn’t leave him here. He would at least _try_ to get him to the city. Try any mix of elixirs he could.

He would do everything he could and if it still wasn’t enough -

He would at least bury him. It was the least he could do.

Geralt walked toward the exit, wondering if the spell had been released. He stepped through the door with no problem. The sky was dark, stars shining brightly. He listened, but the mage was gone. There was only one heartbeat, still fading.

But then suddenly there were two heartbeats. He spun around, expecting the worst but - “ _Yen?_ ”

Her eyes flickered to the bard. “Well,” she said. “Fuck.”

*

He didn’t ask any questions. Fuck, he didn’t _care_ how she knew they needed help or how she found them. All he cared about was following her through the portal she created, glowing brightly in the otherwise dark forest.

He also didn’t care where she was taking them. They stepped out of the portal into a building. There were a few people - mages, he noted idly - in the room. All young girls. They startled before scurrying off. Yennefer seemed unaffected.

“Follow me,” she said tersely.

It was only after a mage - “she specializes in healing, Geralt,” she said, gently touching his arm - took Jaskier from him, disappearing into a room, that he realized they were at Aretuza. He wanted to follow her, wanted to kick the door down and demand to be present, but he didn’t. Mostly because Yennefer still had a grip on his arm.

“Geralt,” she said after a few long seconds.

He stared ahead blankly. “Don’t.”

She was silent after that. It was easily an hour or more before the door opened. Geralt couldn’t look at Yennefer or the healer. He stared at his feet, preparing for the worst. To be told that he would have to bury his oldest, dearest friend. He had always known it was only a matter of time but this wasn’t how he had imagined he would go. At his own hands, and still far too young.

“I’ve done all I can, even with magic. Even still, I don’t know if he will make it through the night,” she said instead. Geralt’s eyes finally flickered up, just to her hands, curled together in front of her. “But if he _does -_ by some miracle - survive the night, the outlook is hopeful.”

Yennefer squeezed his arm. “Thank you,” she said, uncharacteristically soft. “Can we - ?”

“Of course.”

She stepped out of the way. He still didn’t raise his head, even as Yennefer led him into the room.

*

“Geralt.” It had been hours, at least. Both his hands were still wrapped around Jaskier’s. His pulse was weak, but there. He hadn’t let go since sitting down, and he didn’t plan to. “You should get some rest.”

He didn’t look at her, just stared at Jaskier’s peaceful face. “I’m staying.”

Yennefer shifted on her feet in the doorway. “I’ll bring you a blanket,” she said eventually, under her breath, as she turned and the door swung shut behind her.

Geralt squeezed his hand, just the edge of too hard. He looked so peaceful in his slumber. Like he was merely taking a nap after a long day. But he wasn’t. He was trying to recover from something no human should be able to recover from. Because of him.

He bit his tongue, hard enough that he tasted copper. The guilt was like an arrow through his heart, twisting and twisting.

“Jaskier,” he said, leaning forward as he brought their hands up to his face. “I can’t do this.”

There was so much more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. The lump in his throat felt like it was big enough to choke him. Yennefer returned with a blanket, gently wrapping it around his shoulders. He had never seen her so gentle, and he was both thankful and annoyed. That last part, he knew, had very little to actually to do with her.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” he said as she walked to the door. She stopped. “If this is how I lose him.”

She was silent for a long moment. “You’ll find a way to survive,” she said quietly before he heard the door open and close again.

Geralt stared at Jaskier, moving his thumb to his wrist. His pulse was still there, still just as weak as before. He relaxed a little. Yennefer seemed so sure of that. He wasn’t.

“I’ll be here,” he said gruffly. “No matter the outcome, Jaskier, I’ll be here.”

And he _would_ be - except, he’d be asleep, bent over uncomfortably with his head resting on the bed, when he heard it. A quiet moan that had him sitting up with wide eyes, a bit of drool crusted at the side of his mouth. Jaskier was silent after that, long enough that he began to wonder if he had dreamed it when suddenly Jaskier’s hand twitched, eyelashes fluttering.

“Jaskier,” he breathed. “Fuck, _Jaskier_ ,” he repeated, louder. “Can you hear me?”

His hand twitched again. Geralt flipped his hand over, slotting their fingers together. At Jaskier’s weak squeeze, his heart almost stopped.

“Jaskier,” he repeated breathlessly. “Fuck, um.” He twisted around. “ _Yen!_ ”

*

Geralt was pushed out of the room by both Yennefer and the healer. The healer, who he needed to thank. The healer, who he still didn’t even know the name of. Well, those were matters for later. Right now he couldn’t stop his leg from shaking, insistently tapping the floor, as he waited and _waited_. They were taking forever. Was that a bad sign or a good sign?

Finally the door opened and he spun around. Yennefer smiled at him. “He’s awake.”

“And seemingly healing well,” the healer added as she joined them, wiping her hands with a cloth.

Geralt was at a loss for words. Except for - “Thank you,” he said to the healer. He couldn’t remember the last time he had thanked someone for anything, but _this_ \- this was well worth his thanks.

She just waved him off, walking around him. Yennefer followed. At Geralt’s confused expression, she rolled her eyes, gesturing into the room. “He’s asking for you,” she said, that same soft smile back on her face. He found that she looked best when she smiled, and meant it. “ _Just_ you.”

Geralt nodded. “Thank you,” he said again before he turned and entered the room, pulling the door closed behind him. It was only after he was in the room that all the emotions came rushing back. The guilt, the anger, the disbelief.

Jaskier had almost died because of _him_. At _his_ hands.

He didn’t deserve to be here. To see Jaskier ever again.

“Geralt,” he heard, a little weak but also impossibly strong. He looked up. Jaskier was propped up against a mountain of lumpy pillows, smiling slightly. Always smiling. Always impossibly strong. “Sit with me.”

He hesitated for a few long seconds, inwardly fighting with himself, before he slowly walked over, sitting heavily in the chair he had been occupying for the last few few hours. Listening to Jaskier’s requests were the least he could do. He was stiff as he sat, hands in his lap. Jaskier sighed softly, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.

Geralt swallowed thickly. “I will find her,” he said, the words spilling out on their own, the anger swirling like a tornado in the pit of his stomach. “The mage,” he said when Jaskier opened his eyes. “I’ll find her and _kill_ her for - ”

“Shh,” Jaskier said, turning his hand over on the bed. “Just - give me your hand?”

He stared at his hand. Remembered suddenly and vividly the stark contrast of red all over his pale hands. His stomach lurched and he had to fight to keep the bile back.

“Geralt,” he said, and he forced himself to look at his face. Jaskier was watching him with a gentle smile. He didn’t deserve his kindness, especially after - “You and your guilt complex,” he continued softly, interrupting his thoughts. “Just stop thinking and give me your hand, okay?”

He reached out instinctively, quickly. Jaskier’s fingers curled around his hand, lightly squeezing.

With a hum, Jaskier tilted his head back again, eyes closing. He was silent, and so was Geralt. He had never been good with words, despite having so much he wanted to say. So much he knew Jaskier deserved to hear. He had been better after their fight on the mountain, but not nearly good enough.

He needed to do even better.

He needed to know that during Jaskier’s final moments, he would never doubt that he had been loved and cared for.

“You saved my life,” Jaskier said after a while, breaking the silence.

Geralt stared at him if only because he knew he could do it without being caught. The dark circles under his eyes were atrocious. There was still a small bit of dried blood on his chin. “Only after I nearly killed you first,” he said, low and rough.

He wasn’t looking for comfort, to be fair, or pity. He was just being honest. The guilt was like a knife in his heart, twisting and twisting, pushing deeper and deeper.

Jaskier opened his eyes, fast enough that he caught him staring. Geralt didn’t look away. He braved it. “ _You_ did not do anything,” he said with a frown. “You were _tricked_ , Geralt. None of this is your fault and - ”

He groaned suddenly, eyelashes fluttering, as he reached for his stomach. Geralt grabbed his other hand before he could touch anything. “Be careful,” he said tersely.

Jaskier nodded, swallowing and settling back down. “Geralt,” he continued. “I do not blame you for any of this. You should not blame yourself.” He smiled, head lolling. “You _saved_ my life.”

“I - ” Geralt resisted the urge to squeeze his hand too hard, instead stroking his knuckles with his thumb. He no longer had to regularly check his pulse. The relief was almost staggering. He took a shaky breath. Time for that honesty he was so afraid of. “I don’t know what I would’ve done,” he continued around the sizable lump in his throat, “if you had died because of me.”

 _If you had died at all,_ he thought. But that wasn’t reasonable; Jaskier was human. His death was only a matter of time.

“But I didn’t,” he replied gently, comforting _him_. As if he wasn’t the one in bed, barely able to move, with a gaping wound in his stomach. “I’m here.”

Geralt nodded curtly. “You’re here,” he said, at a loss for any other words. He was here, that was all he could ask for. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to their hands. His chest convulsed as he struggled to fight back the sobs. He didn’t care; as soon as he could, he would find that mage and he would make her suffer. Make her feel even _half_ the pain he had experienced, sitting here and waiting to see if Jaskier would ever open his eyes again.


End file.
